


kneel into a dream

by ictus



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Cock Warming, Desk Sex, Dream Sex, M/M, Post-Canon, Power Dynamics, Praise Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-15
Updated: 2020-08-15
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:54:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25791694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ictus/pseuds/ictus
Summary: There are certain things Arthur can only say when he’s under.
Relationships: Arthur/Eames (Inception)
Comments: 24
Kudos: 102
Collections: Battleship 2020, Battleship 2020 - Red Team





	kneel into a dream

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DachOsmin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DachOsmin/gifts).



> Looks like I missed the boat on this one (ha!). I hope you enjoy this late treat regardless! Title taken from [Least of All by Natalie Wee](https://natalieweepoetry.tumblr.com/post/159435295729/i-kneel-into-a-dream-where): _I kneel into a dream where I am good & loved._
> 
> As ever, thank you to my wonderful beta asuralucier!

“That’s it Eames, you’re doing well.”

Arthur’s voice pulls Eames out of his reverie, a little more abruptly than what he’s used to. With it, Eames becomes newly aware of the weight of Arthur’s cock in his mouth, his lips stretched around the shaft. Eames swallows compulsively, and is rewarded by a hitch in Arthur’s measured breathing, a barely perceptible tightening of Arthur’s hand in his hair.

“Your mouth feels so good, Eames.”

Arthur’s voice is still underpinned by condescension, that signature bite lurking beneath so much of his pleasantries. Eames has lost count of the number of times he’s heard Arthur say the words _it’s a pleasure to meet you,_ in a tone that’s better suited to the phrase _go fuck yourself—_ and that’s just introductions. Arthur will always give credit where credit’s due, acknowledgement for a job well done, but praise? Praise is something he withholds unreservedly.

Until now.

Now, Eames is kneeling beneath a desk between Arthur’s spread legs, his head cradled in Arthur’s lap, and holding Arthur’s cock in his mouth. He doesn’t know how long he’s been doing this; Arthur’s only half-hard, his cock occasionally twitching on Eames’s tongue. But he’d wager it’s been a while, given the ache in his knees and the puddle of drool that’s soiling Arthur’s expensive trousers.

Arthur doesn’t seem particularly bothered, though, not if his occasional sighs are anything to go by. Every so often, the silence is punctuated by the scratch of a pen, the sound of shuffling papers, and the second it occurs to Eames that Arthur is actually _working_ right now, is the exact second that he realises he’s known this from the start. 

Arthur’s hand disappears abruptly from Eames’s hair, and a second later there’s the sound of typing as Arthur shifts his full attention back to his work. Eames can barely stifle the whine that rises in his throat, can’t stop himself from running his tongue along the underside of Arthur’s cock, from taking him deeper into his mouth—anything to get Arthur’s attention.

“Come on now, none of that. You know I still have work to do.” Arthur’s touching Eames again but his hand is firm at the nape of Eames’s neck, holding him steady. Eames relaxes under Arthur’s touch, lets his mouth go soft around Arthur’s cock. “That’s better,” Arthur murmurs, and this time it comes out as sincere. “You’re doing well.”

Warmth suffuses Eames’s chest, even from praise as simple as this. It stays with him even as Arthur’s hand disappears and he resumes typing. Eames lets his mind drift, thinking of nothing in particular, nothing except for the feeling of Arthur’s cock in his mouth, the taste of it on his tongue.

It isn’t always like this. Eames and Arthur—they work well together, both in the field and in the bedroom. Arthur is complex and interesting and _brilliant_ , and yes, at times, infuriating. And Eames gets a kick out of challenging him, likes to dismantle his rigid, methodical approach, and force him to think outside the box. It would be a lie to say that Eames is unhappy with their arrangement. But sometimes, Eames wants more than what Arthur chooses to give him. And in a dream, these things are easier; there are less reservations, less inhibitions. All of their layers peeled back, all of their facades dismantled, leaving nothing but raw desire.

Eames can’t tell how long has passed—maybe five minutes, maybe two hours—but eventually, Arthur’s hand returns to the nape of his neck. Without a single word, he guides Eames with the gentle press of his fingers, encouraging him to move. By this point, it’s almost a challenge for Eames to temper his enthusiasm, to work Arthur’s cock to hardness with gentle strokes of his tongue rather than swallow him deeply like he so desperately wants to.

Eames is rewarded with another one of those sighs, and coming from Arthur, nothing has ever sounded sweeter. Arthur’s never vocal during sex, biting back every moan and whimper, and always, always withholding. Now, Arthur gasps when Eames runs his tongue along the underside of his cock, moans softly as Eames draws back to suck on the head, and it’s only Arthur’s hand in Eames’s hair that stops him from redoubling his efforts and chasing more of those sounds.

“That’s enough,” Arthur says softly, breathlessly, and Eames flushes with the knowledge that _he_ did that. “Come up here,” Arthur adds a second later, pushing his chair back to give Eames some room.

It’s an effort to get to his feet after so long on the floor, Eames’s knees creaking with the sudden movement. He’s both surprised and unsurprised to realise he’s naked, has been the entire time. Arthur is fully dressed, having tucked himself away, and is as impeccable as ever where he remains seated in his chair.

Eames holds Arthur’s gaze for what feels like a lifetime, until without warning or explanation, Arthur says, “Touch yourself.”

What sounds like an order is actually a request, although Arthur would never phrase it as such. That’s why they’re here, after all. It occurs to Eames that his mouth is no longer occupied, so he could say something to that, could say _touch me yourself_ or any of the hundred other thoughts that have sprung to his mind. But Arthur’s gaze is heavy with want, and Eames is intoxicated by the thought of pleasing him.

So he does.

Eames takes himself in hand and god, even this feels incredible. He’s hard, has probably been hard since they started, to the point where his own touch has him craving more. Even in the dim light of the office, Arthur’s flush is all too pronounced, his gaze flickering between Eames’s eyes and his hand, and Eames has never been shy about his body, but Arthur’s scrutiny weighs on him like a tangible thing.

“Not like that,” Arthur says just as suddenly. Eames’s hand stills before his brain even processes the request, some innate part of him wired to respond to Arthur unconsciously. Eames cocks an eyebrow and before he can ask, Arthur’s gaze is dropping to the desk where a bottle of lube has appeared, sitting innocently next to a jar of pens.

Eames follows Arthur’s gaze, comprehension dawning. “Oh,” he says, drawing out the vowel until it’s more of a drawl. “You’d like me to touch myself like _that_.”

Arthur’s expression is implacable, his darkened eyes the only thing giving him away. Eames shifts so he’s sitting on the edge of the desk, half-reclining on the polished wood, and draws a knee up to his chest. Eames squeezes some lube onto his fingers and brings them between his legs, locking eyes with Arthur before proceeding any further.

“Are you waiting for me to ask nicely?” Arthur asks.

Eames huffs out a breath, already breaching himself with cautious fingers. “If I were, then we’d be here all night. A please wouldn’t go amiss, though.”

Arthur’s smile quirks. He shifts a little in his chair, the movement calling attention to the bulge in his pants, and it’s impossibly gratifying to know that he’s still hard in his expensive slacks. “Eames, would you please touch yourself?”

The _please_ actually makes it sound even more derisive, but Eames’s remark gets lost somewhere on the path from his brain to his mouth. The fingers in his ass are far too distracting, as is the way Arthur’s leaning forward in his chair now, appraising Eames with obvious interest.

“You look so good like this.” Arthur’s voice is hushed, as if he’s sharing a secret. Eames’s cock—flushed and hard where it’s lying against his stomach—twitches at those words.

Eames lets out a breathy, “Yeah?” that’s more of a sigh than anything else.

“Yeah. Fucking yourself open for me,” Arthur says, his voice catching on the _k_. Profanity always sounds so vulgar coming from Arthur, except for when it doesn’t. “Getting yourself ready for my cock.”

Eames squeezes his eyes shut, unable to handle the dual stimuli of sight and sound. Not with Arthur looking as he does: eyes dark, and lips parted, his white-knuckled grip on his chair betraying how badly he wants to touch himself. How badly he wants to touch Eames.

“I aim to please,” Eames gets out with some difficulty, finally meeting Arthur’s eyes. He’s aiming for glib, but there’s no hiding the undercurrent of truth that belies his tone.

Arthur’s about to reply, his eyes shining in a way that tells Eames he won’t like what’s coming next, when an electronic beeping rings out through the office. They both freeze, Eames spread out on the desk with his fingers buried in his ass and Arthur still seated, his mouth open in the shape of a half-formed word. It would be almost comical if Eames weren’t so fucking hard.

“Please tell me that’s not the fire alarm,” Eames says, removing his fingers with a gasp. The beeping stops as quickly as it had begun, and Eames cranes his neck, looking for a source.

“It’s not,” Arthur says, suddenly rising to his feet. “It is _an_ alarm, though,” he adds, shrugging off his jacket. “The one I set for when we have fifteen seconds left.”

Eames’s eyes widen. “Real time or dream time?”

“Real time.”

“So that means… fifteen times twelve is—”

“One hundred and eighty,” Arthur says, slipping out of his braces. He unbuttons the top button of his slacks and undoes the zipper, just enough to pull his cock free. “We’ve got three minutes,” Arthur adds, giving his cock a squeeze.

Eames lets his head fall back on the desk with a thud. Adrenaline is kicking in, sending his heart into overdrive, and he’s all too aware of every passing second, time slipping away like water through cupped hands. The only thing that soothes him is Arthur’s hands on his thighs, steady and sure.

There’s a blunt pressure at Eames’s hole, and Arthur doesn’t need to say anything before the words, “Arthur, please,” are tumbling from Eames’s mouth. Eames isn’t above begging, is not about to let something as immaterial as pride get in the way of what he wants. That’s something Arthur has never understood.

Those two simple words seem to be the exact thing Arthur’s waiting for. Arthur shifts slightly, and suddenly Eames is yielding under the unrelenting pressure, opening up as Arthur presses into him. Eames chokes on a groan as Arthur pushes in the rest of the way, his hips snapping forward without warning. Eames’s hands scrabble against the desk, his back arching off its surface as he struggles to adjust to feeling of Arthur inside him.

“You’re perfect,” Arthur whispers, his voice sweet as molasses. “You always feel incredible every”—he draws out halfway—“single”—he snaps his hips forward, making them both groan—“time.”

Eames’s eyes fall shut as Arthur’s words wash over him, the words _perfect_ and _incredible_ sounding foreign on Arthur’s tongue, but Eames drinks them up all the same. His eyes fly open again as Arthur fucks him hard enough to jostle his entire body, setting a pace that has Eames reaching for Arthur’s shoulders, his collar—anything to keep Eames grounded.

“ _Fuck,_ so good,” Arthur murmurs, his voice no more than a puff of breath against Eames’s lips, and as Eames’s conscious mind succumbs to sensory overload, his last coherent thought is he’s reduced Arthur to statements as ineloquent as _so good_. Eames’s cock is dragging a wet trail against Arthur’s dress shirt, and Eames can’t take it any longer. He wraps a hand around himself, the simple touch feeling like heaven. The feeling is compounded by way Arthur’s driving his body into Eames’s, his cock dragging along Eames’s prostate with every thrust, sparking pleasure through Eames’s entire body.

Eames says, “We don’t have much time—”

Arthur cuts him off with a kiss, swallowing the sound as if he can’t bear the reminder. “I know,” Arthur whispers. He tightens his grip on Eames’s thighs and drags him to the very edge of the desk, until Eames’s ass is flush with his thighs. He gives an experimental thrust and they both groan with it, the shift in position allowing Arthur even deeper.

“I want to see you come,” Arthur says, and _fuck_ , that shouldn’t sound as hot as it does. Eames feels drunk on Arthur’s words, his head swimming with them, and even now he knows that he’s ruined, knows that nothing that they do in reality is going to measure up, not until Arthur learns to give him _this_. 

Eames lets out a mumbled “Yeah,” his brain too scrambled for much else, and tightens his grip on his own cock, his hand moving rapidly.

“That’s it,” Arthur says, his thrusts growing erratic. “Love the way you look when you come,” Arthur mutters, and Eames prays to whatever god might be out there, prays with every fibre of his being that even once the dream fades, he’ll remember this at least. Arthur’s voice has pleasure pooling in Eames’s gut, and he’s so close now, teetering on the edge, he just needs—he needs—

“God, Eames, you’re so—”

Arthur’s words are cut off. There’s an alarm sounding in the distance, an electronic beeping growing louder and louder.

“Fuck, wait!” Eames shouts, but it’s pointless. The dream is fragmenting, fracturing into a thousand tiny pieces. Eames tries to hold on—hold on to the feeling of Arthur on top of him, inside him, his voice sweet in Eames’s ear. And the more he does, the faster the dream dissolves.

There’s a tinny electronic sound burrowing into Eames’s head, an incessant beeping setting his teeth on edge. His first thought is that he would love nothing more than to find whatever device is responsible for producing such a sound, and grind it to a pulp with his bare hands.

His second thought is that he’s desperately hard, his erection straining uncomfortably in his slacks. 

Eames grits his teeth and squeezes his eyes shut, not wanting to confront reality just yet. His totem is burning a hole in his pocket, but he likewise ignores it. It’s best not to check it in front of Arthur, anyway.

There’s the sound of movement from Eames’s right and a second later, the beeping subsides.

“Thank you,” Eames grits out, letting his head fall back against his chair. He finally slides his eyes open to see Arthur’s on his feet with his back to Eames, already rolling up the leads of the PASIV.

“No problem,” Arthur says, still not turning around.

Eames’s eyes fall shut again as he lets the dream wash over him, Arthur’s voice echoing in his head.

_You’re perfect. You always feel incredible. Every. Single. Time._

Something pinches at Eames’s wrist and he opens his eyes to see Arthur’s pulled Eames’s lead free and is winding it up with the others. Eames can’t stop the lazy smile that spreads over his face as tries to catch Arthur’s eye, still caught up in the euphoria from the dream.

“Well, then,” Eames starts. “That was, one hundred percent and without a doubt, the best—”

“That was good,” Arthur says shortly. He shuts the PASIV with a loud click, a definitive sound.

Eames blinks. “Good?”

“Yes,” Arthur says curtly, and that edge to his voice is back again, all too pronounced and impossible to ignore. “It went well.”

Eames stares dumbly at the back of Arthur’s head as he gathers the PASIV and then his jacket. “Arthur, can we not talk about—”

“I said it was good,” Arthur says. His tone is not unkind—not mean, not cruel, not anything unforgivable—but it is cold. Defensive. Something about it leaves a hollow feeling in the pit of Eames’s gut.

Halfway towards the door Arthur turns and adds, “Remember, we have actual work to do here. Don’t be late.”

Eames’s response gets caught somewhere in his throat. But then again, Arthur doesn’t seem to be expecting one. Arthur just slings his jacket over his shoulder and makes for the door, leaving Eames alone without a backwards glance.

**Author's Note:**

> You can also find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/scansionictus).

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [As above, so below (kneel into a dream remix)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28557210) by [asuralucier](https://archiveofourown.org/users/asuralucier/pseuds/asuralucier)




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